


Of Course We Care

by TheDarkFlygon



Series: Fever February [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Family Fluff, Fever, Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Influenza, Mother-Son Relationship, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-04
Updated: 2018-02-04
Packaged: 2019-03-13 19:23:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13577340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheDarkFlygon/pseuds/TheDarkFlygon
Summary: [FEVER FEBRUARY - DAY 1: FLU]Being a mom involves watching your daughter eat her cereals in front of the TV and taking care of your son who came down with the flu.





	Of Course We Care

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Fever February!  
> https://mugenthesickfic.tumblr.com/post/170469673461/introducing-fever-february

When her son didn’t wake up early in the morning, Odette immediately knew something was wrong. Her instincts didn’t mistake her: right after she charged Thomas to keep an eye on his little sister, she climbed upstairs and the lack of reaction to her knocking only confirms her in her guesses.

She enters the bedroom, still sunk in darkness, with only the few light beams escaping the not-so-well-closed curtains. Her face softens as soon as she hears heavy sniffles, but sours after coughing comes to her ears.

 

Odette doesn’t have the heart to open the curtains wide, so she just set them apart enough to get some light in the room. She now has an unobstructed view of her son: he’s asleep, buried under his sheets, his glasses on the nightstand and his hair ruffled, even more so than when he’s awake and running. She can see the paleness of his skin, a paleness she knows too much, under his newly found thick beard, matching the flush all across his cheeks and his laboured breathing.

She walks up to his bed and puts a hand on where his shoulder should be located under the sheets, with a soft tone in her voice and cotton eyes. It pains her to see him doing so badly, but in the other hand, she feels a bit happy to be able to take care of him for the first time in years.

 

He stirs, shut eyes going from pained sleep to simply pained, as if awaking was a dolour to him. His eyes are glassy, maybe a bit puffy, reddened and unfocused. She may be too close for him to see her clearly, hypermetropia and all. His hand smashes his nightstand in search for his glasses, which he slowly puts on after rubbing his eyes once, twice, thrice.

“Mom…?” he croaks out in a tired, congested voice, before coughing.

“It’s indeed your mom, dear. How’re you feeling?”

“Garbage…” is all he replies as he sniffles.

“You poor thing… Wait for me, I’m getting you some stuff you’ll need.”

 

When she’s downstairs, Odette sees Lucile calmly eat breakfast as she watches cartoons and Thomas aggressively read his maths sheets for the day. Someone has a test and someone else doesn’t, she thinks, as she asks them how they’re doing. She needs to get to the bathroom next, but for now she’s going to grab a bottle of water.

“Mom, how’s Fran?” Lucile asks from the couch.

“Oh, that’s right, he’s sick,” Thomas seems to just remember. “Flav’ didn’t look so happy about having to drive to Paris and back to bring him here.”

“Your brother just woke up, kids. It sounds like he’s down with the flu or something similar,” the mother replies as she goes for the bathroom.

 

From the blue-and-white room, she hears her younger children discuss the situation. Lucile is clearly worried: the ratio between the number of times she grabs her spoon to eat her cereals and the number of times she mentions “Fran” is disadvantaging the first. Thomas doesn’t talk as much of his older brother: “he’s gonna make it, you know how he is, he’s always sick”.

If only the younger boy wasn’t right…

 

As soon as she has everything she needs from the bathroom, Odette goes upstairs again to check up on her second child. He’s sweating, she can smell it, but the issue there isn’t the stench. It’s why the stench is. She puts the small tray she has on the nightstand and smiles to him, which he tries to give back to her.

“I’ll bring you to the doctor later, okay? For now, let’s take your temperature and get some medicine,” she tells him in a quiet voice.

He just nods weakly, and she kisses his forehead before damping a cloth and putting it under his bangs, wiping his sweat away.

 

* * *

 

 

“Mom… How long does the flu last…?” he asks as she helps him change from civilian cloths to his PJs.

“I would say five to seven days. The doctor said it would last around that time, would you rest and take your medicine correctly.”

Her sterner tone makes him flinch. And he knows why she’s always stern about this. That didn’t fail to get to her ears.

 

He goes back to bed to cover himself in his sheets as his mom hands him a glass of water and some medicine pills he got asked to take.

“I’m sorry, mom… I thought it really wasn’t a big deal, and I had an oral and…” he whispers while meaning to speak normally, between coughs.

“Take your medicine, François, then we’ll talk.”

He does so, albeit reluctantly.

 

“Mom, you’re not working today…?” he asks a few minutes later, as she’s sitting next to his bed, folding cloths she ironed yesterday.

“Today’s Wednesday, and I never work on Wednesdays, my dear.”

“You don’t have to stay there… I’m eighteen, mom…” he rasps before blowing his nose.

“You may be eighteen, but you’re down with the flu, and you can’t take care of yourself on your own. Your roommates were practically screaming for help on the phone.”

He smiled shyly.

“The guys are always so caring for me… But so are everyone here…”

 

He coughs loudly right after that, throat burning, clutching onto his jaw with his hand. It pains her so much so see him in such a dire state.

“Of course people care about you, darling. You’re a good person who always shows concern for the people you love. It’s normal to take care of people who take care of you.”

He sneezes, his head jerks back, but his face doesn’t go miserable from it. Quite the contrary: he’s smiling.

 

“Mom… I love you…” he mutters as he drifts back to sleep.

Odette strokes her son’s cheek. He may be an adult: he’ll always be her baby.

 “We all love you.”


End file.
